Pelopidas
by Dwynwen
Summary: A strange man approaches Hermione, Draco, Fred, Percy, Fleur, Oliver, Luna and Cho, giving them a desicion that will change their lives forever. A potrayal at the depth of human resilience and love. Mild slash in later chapters. Dare you read?
1. Chapter 1

Pelopidas

Chapter one: A Very Strange Stranger

"So Harry thinks he's found the final Horcrux?" Hermione asked in an awed voice.

"Yeah, he said something to me earlier about having a new idea inspired by his last showdown with You-Know-Who," Ron said.

The two of them were pacing around Trafalgar Square, holding hands to keep out the temperamental April breeze as well as to show affection.

"So that would be the diary, the ring, that foul snake, the cup of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw's looking glass we have already. Does Harry have any idea what the sixth Horcrux will be?"

"He hasn't said anything but I think he thinks the same as I do: that it's whatever R.A.B took from the locket that Harry found the night... that Dumbledore died."

"It still hurts to say it out loud, doesn't it?"

"More than I expected it to," Ron mumbled and gripped Hermione's hand a little tighter.

"I know how you feel -- but it's how Harry's coping with all this is really worrying me. I mean, we have each other; Harry has no-one, not really."

"Yeah, since this whole thing started, it's as if he's drifting further and further away from us. I still can't believe he tried to take on that Nagini alone. If we hadn't had shown up, You-Know-Who would have killed him then."

"In Harry's eyes, though, it's his mission and his mission alone. I just wish he'd realise that no matter how special he is, no man is an island."

"Mm," Ron said pensively. "Look, I have to get going, if my mother doesn't see me at least three times a week, she frets."

"Want me to come?"

"No, it's fine, since the last battle I was in, she's been a wreck; I should go alone." He kissed her gently and walked off to disapparate in some back alley or other.

"I thought he'd never leave."

"What?" Hermione cried, jumping at glancing behind. A man stood not two metres behind her.

"Well, he finally left. That's important, I need to speak to you alone."

He was a little under average height, though not enough to be classified as short, and wearing a creased camel trench coat. His anxious, hazy brown eyes gazed up from beneath a fading tweed trilby. The stranger had small hands gloved in leather, which he rubbed and twisted together -- an anxious habit. There was nothing particularly odd about him apart from the fact that Hermione could not, for the life of her, discern his age. He might have been twenty or forty.

"I need to speak with you," he repeated, quietly and urgently.

"Do I know you?" Hermione asked warily.

"No, but I know you, and it's vital that we speak."

"Well, speak," Hermione said, feeling apprehensive and suspicious.

"Not here," he whispered, his eyes scanning the perimeter in a manner that reminded Hermione of a frightened mouse. "Can you meet me at this address?" He offered her a crumpled piece of parchment. Hermione just looked at it.

"Please." He sounded desperate. "Please, Hermione, we don't have much time. Trust me." He reached out his hand and touched her arm softly, appealingly -- Hermione found that for some reason, she did.

She took the paper carefully and the man melted into the wall of moving muggles so seamlessly that she couldn't help but wonder whether he had been but a dream. Interested, Hermione smoothed out the parchment and read the few, hastily scribbled, lines that occupied the centre of the page.

27 Paris Avenue,

London,

10:30pm April 13

* * *

Should the 'Nosebleed Nougats' go in front of the 'Shaking Sherbets'? Fred wondered idly as he arranged boxes. Okay, yes, the 'Nosebleed Nougat' was a much better seller but the 'Shaking Sherbets' -- a newly-invented sherbet lemon sweet as a tribute to Dumbledore which caused the eater to shake uncontrollably for half an hour -- really did deserve more attention. He shuffled the boxes indecisively, and, dissatisfied, shuffled them again. Eventually, Fred decided to wait for his twin to return from New York and talk it over with him. George was much better at details and tactics that Fred who had very little concentration with such mundane things.

The bell above the door jangled.

"We're closed!" Fred yelled but there was no second jangle of a person leaving.

"Nice place you have," a voice remarked mildly.

Fred turned around to face a stranger in pale green robes with brown hair and a habit, it seemed, of rubbing his hands together in agitation.

"I said 'we're closed'," Fred told him tersely.

"I know, and I'm very sorry, but I need to speak to you."

"What about?"

"It's-" The man paused. "It is very complicated. I can't tell you here."

"Tell me what?" Fred demanded loudly.

The man looked torn for a second, and then dug into his robes and extracted what looked like a

business card.

"Just come," he said mysteriously and put the card on the shelf. The bell tinkled cheerfully behind him as he left, leaving Fred very much confused. Meet him where? He reached out and picked up the business card; it was crisp white and laminated, though Fred didn't know what lamination was, and the boldly printed words proclaimed:

27 Paris Avenue,

London,

10:30pm April 13

* * *

"Miss Chang, could you do that a bit faster?" Mr Saunders barked.

"I'm trying!" Cho said frantically, her hand a blur as she wrote.

"I need copies of that document by six o'clock," Mr Saunders said.

"I know, I'm doing my best, Sir!"

Mr Saunders let out an incredulous huff and resumed his letter to some foreign businessman or another who was probably as big an ass as he was. Cho longed to stab him with her quill.

"Miss Chang, you are aware that 'The Cleansweep Company' produce more broomsticks world wide than any other company?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And that we do this by employing hardworking, dedicated individuals who are ready to pour every gram of their energy into our organisation?"

"Yes, Sir."

"So I'm sure that you'll understand when I say that I hope not to have to tell you again to pick up the pace."

"Yes, Sir," Cho said through gritted teeth, attempting to ignore her throbbing wrist. She dotted the last full stop. "I've finished, Sir."

"Good." The smug git glanced at his watch and announced magnanimously that Cho could go.

Mumbling her thanks, Cho threw her stuff into her bag and swung her long, black her over her shoulder. A habit she needed to break.

Outside it was already dark, though Cho should have been finishing at five thirty. She inhaled the cold air and pulled her cloak tighter around her. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder and she jumped.

"I need to talk to you, it's important," said the man who was holding her shoulder. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt and looked into her eyes with his nervous, light brown ones.

"Leave me alone," Cho said, afraid.

"Listen! You have no idea how important you are! Please!"

"Go away!" Cho hissed, stepping back and slipping her hand into her pocket.

"I mean no harm," the stranger insisted. He looked as though he was unsure of how to express himself. "I knew that you'd be the hardest to persuade," he said with a weak smile. Cho said nothing but groped for her wand.

"You need not fear me," the stranger implored quietly. "Just meet me here, please!" He held out a pink pamphlet that shook in his hand. Slowly, Cho reached for it -- and as she did the stranger disapparated. Cho held the pamphlet up to the light of the street lamp. In curly red calligraphy were the words:

27 Paris Avenue,

London,

10:30pm April 13

* * *

"Draco, I cannot believe that you did not notice Potter coming in until he had been here half an hour," Voldemort said. He didn't shout but sounded almost indifferent. Draco, though, knew far better than to think that this meant lenience -- the Dark Lord just didn't care that he may have to kill one of his servants.

"My Lord, we all protected the entrance faithfully; we-we did not know that Potter had an invisibility cloak. But we know now, he won't get in to Laguarida again." Laguarida: that's what they called the headquarters of the Death Eaters. Spanish for 'The Lair'. It moved, of course, never staying in one place for more than a few days. One day it might be an abandoned apartment, the next an underground cave.

"He better not," Voldemort remarked coolly. He twirled his wand in his hand for awhile while Draco stood in terrified apprehension, but then he slipped it back into his robes. Draco exhaled.

"Do not fail me again."

"No- no, of course not, Sir."

"Send Nott in as you leave," Voldemort said.

"Yes, Master," Draco mumbled, bowing deeply and thankfully leaving. He hurried out and saw two cloaked figures standing there. One was Nott, and Draco informed him that his presence was requested by the Dark Lord. Nott paled but entered calmly enough.

"Rough?" asked the second person, who Draco didn't know; he was probably a new recruit.

"Not to bad. I'm used to it," Draco said with a rueful laugh. "How long ago did you join?"

"Oh, me?" the man asked lightly. "I'm not a Death Eater."

"What?" Draco was stunned to say the least. "What are you doing here?" he demanded in a fearful whisper.

"To see you, of course."

"What? Me? I don't know who you are!"

"No, but I still need to speak to you, I'm afraid." He raised his head a little and gave Draco an apologetic sort of smile. He then slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and pressed it into Draco's hand.

"Come," he said, "if you envision a better future for yourself." He stepped back and seemed to melt into the darkness. Draco glanced down at the envelope and, after a second's internal debate, opened it. There was a single slip of paper adorned with neat, elaborate writing that said,

27 Paris Avenue,

London,

10:30pm April 13

* * *

Luna sat under a large oak. Its small leaves were young and tender, so Luna could feel the sun's hesitant warmth shine through them and onto her. She had a sketchbook in her lap and was lightly and deftly drawing a blackbird which dug up worms not three meters away with one, wary eye on its artist. There was a focused, almost frenzied glint in Luna's eye as she strove to capture the creature on paper, a glint quite alien to her usual, dreamy mien. The dull world of people wasn't worth such attention in Luna's eyes.

Without warning, the blackbird took off, flapping madly through the fresh morning air and disappearing from sight. Disappointed, the young artist looked around for possible causes of muse's departure and immediately spotted him. A young man, or he could have been old, Luna wasn't sure, stood awkwardly, quite near to Luna.

"Forgive me," he said. "I have disturbed you."

"You have," Luna agreed and turned back to her drawing; she was already bored of him and didn't stop to ponder as to why he was in her garden.

"May I speak with you?" the man asked tentatively. Luna nodded absently and faced him. He was wearing black leather and here was a lot of gel in his hair; he might have been intimidating if it weren't for the fact that he was obviously very intimidated by the rest of the world. He sat down next to Luna who merely gazed at him expectantly for a few moments.

"It is difficult to explain," he began. Luna made no attempt to help him. "I need for you to meet me somewhere."

"Oh."

"I will make things clear to you there," he said and handed her a note. It was on lined paper and written, in block capitals, with a biro.

"You will come?" the stranger asked anxiously. Luna nodded to thin air and read the note.

27 Paris Avenue,

London

10:30pm April 13

* * *

"You looked stressed, Perce," Liz yawned, stretching backwards on her chair like a cat as if to demonstrate her own, stress-free, state. Her colleague glanced irritably up at her.

"Yes, I am stressed," he said shortly, and continued to read the letter which was in his hand.

"What is that thing?" Liz asked.

"Letter from the Minister of Magic for France," Percy muttered. "And it's not good. The French are getting quite irritated by Scrimgeour's attitude of trying to deal with the You-Know-Who mess by himself and neglecting to work together with foreign wizarding communities. The entire world is a little frustrated with Britain at the moment, I'm afraid."

"Shouldn't that be Scrimgeour's problem, though?"

"Well, yes," Percy agreed, sounding harassed. "But he's to _important_ to read letters, so he makes me read and summarise them for him. And then I have to reply to all the people who have a bone to pick with our country. So I get all the crap and the Minister is blissfully unaware of the foreign discontent."

"Glad I'm not you," Liz grinned and Percy gave her a grudging smile in return. She stood up and pulled on her coat.

"Well, I'm off," she told Percy.

"All right for some!" he grumbled. She laughed insouciantly and departed. Percy continued to read the strongly worded letter -- which was in bloody _French_, for crying out loud -- with trepidation. Of course, having worked with Mr Crouch had made it necessary to learn many languages, but French was not his strongest one. Italian, he was fluent in, and Japanese had been easy enough to pick up, too, but French for some reason was a difficulty.

There was a soft, barely audible, knock on the door which dragged Percy out of his thoughts.

"Come in," Percy said loudly.

In entered a man: he was wearing a sort of business suit that one would expect to see in the Muggle world, and he possessed a twitchy, nervous manner. His medium brown hair was combed back neatly and his features were perfectly ordinary. It was his kind of people who made up crowds, worked along side everyone and sat next to you on the bus or train. He was the kind that made up the nameless, faceless multitude.

"Can I help you?" Percy asked stiffly.

"You can, yes. I need to speak with you in private."

"Oh," Percy said suspiciously. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

"There's no-one here now."

"There might be," the stranger said quietly, glancing around as if he was sure that everyone in the building had their ears pressed against the walls. He took what looked like a memo out of his pocket, fumbled with it nervously and placed it in front of Percy.

"Come if you would," he murmured, then left. The door clicked softly at his exodus.

Bemused, Percy glanced at the memo. Typed out was a date and address.

27 Paris Avenue,

London,

10:30pm April 13

* * *

"Bill, darling," Fleur sighed. "Really, there eez no need for you to come to zis."

"I want to come!" he insisted.

"But eet eez my friend's birthday party, and you do not know 'er."

"Yes, but still," Bill continued with patience. "We're a couple and we should do things together." He smoothed down his dress robes, glanced instinctively up at the mirror, and then looked away, repulsed.

"Bill," Fleur started soothingly, but he cut her off.

"Let's go then!"

Fleur shook her head but didn't know how to dissuade him.

They disapparated, reappearing on the porch of a Victorian style house. Fleur knocked.

"Fleur, hi! How are you doing?" a woman shrieked, and threw her arms around Fleur.

"I am fine, Eli. And you?"

"Oh, just peachy. But, my, my, Fleur, who's your friend?" Her small, dark eyes took in Bill, running across his face and picking out every last imperfection there, or that's how Bill felt anyway.

"Zees eez Bill. You know? My 'usband?" Fleur took his hand in hers.

"Oh, _this_ is Bill," Eli said. "I've been dying to meet you." She let out an airy titter and began to lead them into the house. "You've been busy, though, I suppose?"

"Yeah," Bill said, his mind oddly numb. He was usually good at small talk, chit chat, meaningless blather. He was a confident people person usually, but now he could think of _nothing_ to say. There was a beat of awkward silence.

"Well, so many excuses had been made, we began to wonder whether you existed at all," she laughed lightly again; it was a laugh that Bill had already began to hate. "We all thought you must have been figment of our Fleur's overactive imagination -- or she was hiding you from us!" Tinkling, tinkling, maddening laugh, but Bill couldn't help but see the seriousness in her eyes. Her mind was already thinking, "no wonder Fleur didn't want to let us see him, the poor, poor girl!" It was all his imagination, of course, but... Fleur squeezed his hand to show she understood. Bill felt suddenly and unreasonably furious with her. What did she know? How could she understand how he felt? Her face hadn't been torn into a thousand gashes!

"I'll get us something to drink," he mumbled and stalked off. Fleur watched him go, head bent, as it so often was nowadays, and snapping irrationally at anyone who struck up a conversation with him. Fleur sighed and played with her wedding ring absent-mindedly. She'd been married ten months but it had felt like ten years, as each week Bill slipped further and further away from her and the rest of the world. He spent a lot of time alone, he completely ignored Fleur's efforts to cook him a tasty meal, look nice for him, buy him gifts, or absolutely anything else. She couldn't help worrying about him and, though she felt awful about it, she was steadily falling out of love with him. The idea of spending the rest of her life with him made her feel as though she was spinning into a black hole of gloom.

"You look very glum," a man to her right said quietly. Like everyone else, he wore dress robes, and, unlike anyone else, he looked as nervous as a park squirrel about to dart up a tree.

"You could say zat," Fleur muttered.

"It is a shame that anyone should have to feel despair. You agree?"

"Er, yes, I suppose," Fleur said, confused.

"Good, because I need a word with you."

"Excuse me?"

"This is far more important than you could imagine," he whispered fervently. Fleur regarded him as though he were insane. "Look, you don't have to believe me now, just come to this place when it says." He was holding a post-it note. Not knowing quite why, Fleur took it off him. It was written in soft pencil.

27 Paris Avenue,

London

10:30pm April 13

* * *

Oliver hovered between posts for less than a moment and a microsecond later he had lunged, snatched up his scarlet prize and thrown it at Cole, one of the chasers of his team. It all happened in a blur of exhilaration; Oliver hardly knew what was happening half the time, instinct just took over.

"Nice save, Wood!" Freyda, the seeker, yelled. But Wood was far too focused on the game to notice, nor would he have cared if he had heard her. It was all about the game. Not long later, the opposing team recaptured the quaffle and it sped towards a hoop again. Like a flash, Oliver knocked it back.

Then, suddenly, Freyda tore downwards from the air, like a falcon stooping for its prey. The world stopped for her as she plummeted with breathtaking yet perfectly controlled speed and a moan of anguish was heard from the other seeker when Freyda held up a small, golden snitch in her hand, flapping futilely.

A scream of triumph rose from the crowd and Wood started; he'd forgotten they were there. Cole and Katrina and Joshua gave each other high fives, and Kerry and Dominic, the beaters zoomed towards Freyda in a group hug. Oliver, too, whooped and joined in with his team mates to celebrate.

"Good game, wasn't it, Ol?" Freyda said happily as they landed, still looking high on adrenaline.

"Oh, yeah, great!" Oliver enthused. They all walked towards the changing rooms, chatting about mistakes, great moves and near misses. Oliver pulled off his Puddlemere United robes and pulled on his ordinary ones.

"I don't think I can face the crowd today, I'll go around the back," he told the others.

"Okay, I'll see you at next practice," Freyda said, grinning and showing ten thousand bright white teeth. She threw her arms around him and -- did she try to pinch his butt?

"Right, next practice," Oliver echoed and left.

"Good game," said a small voice. Oliver groaned inwardly. There usually weren't any fans at the side entrance, but occasionally one would be, and he couldn't just ignore them.

"Thanks," Oliver said to the voice's owner.

"An autograph, perhaps?" the man asked tentatively.

"Sure." Oliver held out his hand for the autograph book being held. The man passed him a page to sign.

"Hey, this one's already written on," Oliver exclaimed, looking up. The man had vanished. Oliver looked back down at the page.

27 Paris Avenue,

London

10:30pm April 13

* * *

In a small, darkened room, two men sat opposite each other. Tension like static electricity filled the room, as the two men gazed at each other uncomfortably.

"You are sure they will came, Mr Wesley?" one asked. He was about fifty years of age, with sleek black hair and reddish skin.

"Quite sure, Mr Harvey," the other replied. His age was to difficult to attest. His hair and skin tone both medium. His complete normality bordered on unnerving.

"Very good, Mr Wesley."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Where is here?

Fred hovered outside the door of a perfectly ordinary terrace house for about six or seven minutes. On the green door with peeling paint, was the number twenty-seven, glinting in the moonlight. Fred glanced at his watch: 10:22pm. It was almost time but... should he go in? It was madness, of course, to even dream about it, but then again he was a Gryffindor, and a Weasley to boot, so he fell pretty high on the courageous, risk-taking list of people. Yet still, Fred would have had to be insane not to think it over _seriously_.

So he thought, standing at the side of the road like an idiot, while cars shot past well over the speed limit and drivers occasionally stuck their head out the window to shout obscenities. He tried to imagine what the rest of his family would do. Had George been faced with this choice, he would have been even more indecisive than Fred; the twins were always more certain of things when they were deciding them together, meaning they became that much more dithering when it came to solitary judgements. Ron and Ginny? Well, obviously, spending so much time with Harry had rubbed off on them, and they would have eagerly entered. Well, Ginny would, Fred amended, Ron had matured lately. His childlike desire for adventure had quelled slightly as a normal part of growing up and he would view this situation more rationally. Bill, a year ago, would have gone in without a second thought, but being ravaged by an insane werewolf obviously made one more wary. Charlie would never had entered. Not that he wasn't brave, but he'd never really shown the same craving, as his siblings did, to discover the new and the intriguing.

What about Percy? Fred's mind finally, unwillingly, considered his other brother and quickly drew its conclusion. Percy would never, ever, not in ten million light years, enter the house or let such an irresponsible thought enter his mind. Perfect, prefect Percy with his neat hair and haughty expression was neither brave nor curious (how he'd landed himself in Gryffindor was a mystery, and Fred was quite ready to believe he'd bribed the sorting hat in some way) and would find no reason to enter this building.

As if to contradict his brother, Fred suddenly made up his mind, grabbed the door knob and yanked it. It didn't move, being, of course, locked. Feeling a bit of a prat, Fred knocked the door. It opened almost immediately.

"Oh, you're here," the door-opener beamed. It was the man who'd shown up at his joke shop. "You're the last; I was beginning to wonder whether you'd come at all."

"Last? Who are the rest?" Fred demanded.

"You'll see. Come on through." The man beckoned Fred forward and they proceeded down the tiny hallway. The entire place seemed cramped and drab, and not nearly impressive enough to excite Fred's curiosity. At the end of the hallway, though, the man pulled a rug up from the floor. A trap doorway lay there. The stranger gave a small smile to Fred, who began to suspect something seriously dodgy going on. Nonetheless, he dutifully followed the man down a ladder and into the basement below.

At the bottom was a large, stonewalled room that was completely and utterly bare. Fred threw the man a suspicious glance: was this some sort of joke? Undeterred, the man casually sidled to one of the walls and started tapping at segments with his wand. Part of the wall instantly fell away to reveal a long corridor.

"Like Diagon Alley," Fred muttered.

" The charm is not dissimilar, yes."

They walked in silence for the rest of the way, along the corridor, then taking a left into a tortuous labyrinth filled with wooden doors. Finally, the strange man, whom Fred had begun to regard with some mistrust, paused outside one particular door and opened it.

"It's about time, I thought you were leaving us here!" a voice exclaimed angrily as they entered into a brightly lit room. Fred recognised, with no little surprise, the pale face and stormy grey eyes of Draco Malfoy, who looked both sulky and panicked.

"I am here now," the man said calmly. "As are all of you." Fred allowed his eyes to drift along the rest of the room. Besides Draco, there was Hermione and Luna Lovegood -- a strange girl that Fred knew vaguely from the DA. The former looked nervous but in control; Luna looked as if this experience was an everyday event, and not a very exciting one at that. Fleur and -- was it Cho? -- stood looking like typical 'Damsels in Distress' next to Oliver who was not unoblivious to the two beautiful women right next to him. Finally, a little apart from the rest, looking characteristically self-confident, albeit not so smug, was-

"Percy!" Fred yelled in surprise, forgetting to inject his usual contempt into the two syllables.

"Yes?" Percy said, taking in his brother without expression.

Fred would have come up with something witty and cutting, but the peculiar, ageless stranger suddenly announced,

"So, finally we are all here."

"Where is here?" Hermione demanded, speaking the question that was on everyone's minds. "And who are you?"

"Oh, of course, how rude of me," the man murmured. "I am Mr Wesley. This house is the Headquarters for the Society of Pelopidas."

"Never heard of it," Oliver said in a dismissive manner.

"Well, no, you wouldn't have. Only the members know of its existence."

"So, I'm guessing we're going to have to become members now," Percy said astutely.

"I am afraid so. That or suffer an early and untimely death." He spoke with the kind of regret that one usually displayed at losing a galleon.

"What?" Draco roared. Everyone looked outraged and even Luna had a slight frown on her forehead.

"That's not fair," Hermione said flatly.

"Just a little joke," Mr Wesley said brightly and they all looked at him stupid. "I'm sorry I have a rather twisted sense of humour. You would not die; you would however have your memories erased."

"Brilliant," Oliver muttered.

"I know but..." Mr Wesley trailed off. "That's just how it is." Tense, angry silence met his words.

"What does the Society of Pelopidas do, anyway?" Fred asked.

"In a nutshell, we protect the human race. We fight the obvious evil, and the invisible evil which hangs like spider web trying to ensnare the innocent. We stop much evil before it has had a chance to do any damage. For example, none of you will ever heard of the Vieille Dealers."

One by one, they shook their heads in bewilderment.

"That's because we destroyed them before they could get a grip on our society; nasty lot, they were. Vieille was a highly powerful magical drug that was discovered in the 1940s. Needless to say, some unsavoury characters tried to take advantage of the fact that it was highly addictive by getting the entire wizarding community hooked. As I said, we annihilated them."

"Good for you," Draco said sarcastically. "But what does this have to do with any of us."

"We need more members. Desperately. It's the Death Eaters that we're having real problems with."

"Don't ze Order of ze Phoenix deal with zem," Fleur asked.

"Yes, but-" The man didn't seem to know quite how to express himself. "As brave as the Order of the Phoenix are, they are not warriors, they are ordinary people. They have deterred the Death Eaters slightly, but even you must realise that average witches and wizards are no match to those powerfully trained in the Dark Arts. Now that Dumbledore has gone, they are in even greater disarray. The burden of protecting our world has fallen solely on the Society of Pelopidas. Which is why we need to recruit more people."

"Why us?" Hermione asked, but before she could be answered, Draco laughed sourly.

"Are you stupid? I AM a Death Eater! I'm not going to help you!"

"You're a good person, Draco," Mr Wesley said with a small smile. "I would not have called you here had I not sensed goodness in your heart. And now for Hermione's question: I have chosen you eight specifically because you are the best and the Society of Pelopidas only takes the best. We have rooted you out as the elite amongst the wizarding public, tracking back from your first year at Hogwarts. You are all the best in your individual ways, all brilliant, and I believe that the world could benefit greatly from your unique gifts. If you have the courage to share them." A rather stunned silence greeted this proclamation, for they all had had an unusually bizarre day and the news that they now had to help protect the world was the icing on the cake.

"No. Way." Draco said calmly, through gritted teeth.

"You do not have to decide now. You will have three days."

"Why three?" Cho asked.

"I like three."

"Right," Fred snorted.

"You must go now," Mr Wesley said with his apologetic smile that had grown highly annoying in a very short space of time. He motioned for them to follow him back through the twisting passageway.

"Why bother bringing us so far down?" Oliver muttered as they all marched along.

"Procedure," was Mr Wesley's answer.

Eventually they were all outside again on the filthy pavement, strewn with old newspapers, cigarette buts and broken glass. They were about to disapparate home when Mr Wesley cleared his throat.

"I've been asked not to say anything to you; to allow you to make up your own minds. But I must beg you to consider this: you will be saving people's lives and giving yours purpose. Therefore please think over this very carefully."

He went back inside, allowing the front door to shut behind him in a soft 'click'.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three: To join or not to join, that is the question! -- the boys

Cher Monsieur,

Je suis désolé que vous désapproviez nos actions, mais...

Percy's quill stopped and hovered just above the parchment in indecision. Percy had difficulty with French, so trying to write a delicate and sensitive letter in the damn language was proving a wretched experience. He had to, of course, be sympathetic and respectful to Minister What's-His-Face, but also defensive of Britain. Tricky. It didn't help matters that Percy agreed wholeheartedly with the French Minister of Magic that Scrimgeour was 'un idiot', however he didn't believe that it was very patriotic to be bitching about him with Monsieur Whatever. It also didn't help that Percy had a decision of enormous proportion to make in the next three days.

"What's up, Buttercup," Liz sang in his ear. She didn't help matters either.

"I'm not a buttercup," Percy said irritably.

"I know that -- it's what my mother used to say to me when I looked stressed. But seriously: what's up? You've been uptight all day; even more so than usual, which I hadn't really believed possible."

"Thanks!" he snapped.

"Oh, come on Perceval, I'm only concerned about you, you know that."

"I know," he said and relaxed by about a fraction of a millimetre. "It's, it's nothing, honestly. Scrimgeour and this French moron have me all wound up, that's all." He wasn't sure why he wasn't telling her the truth, he told her pretty much everything. Yet, for some reason, this felt like a secret.

"It's really just that?" And then, before waiting for a reply: "So how's that letter going, anyway?"

"Pretty bad. Do you know the French word for macabre?"

"Are you real, I don't know what the English word is. What is it, like a parrot?"

"No, that's a macaw. I'll use a dictionary." He reached over for one.

"Good idea. So are you coming out tonight?"

"Out where?" Percy asked, flipping through the creased, yellow pages.

"My sister's birthday! You remember Freyda?"

"Oh, yes. I don't know, though, I have a daunting amount of work to accomplish in a very small space of time."

"Don't get all pompous on me, Perce," Liz sighed. "Come out tonight. Please? You know it'll do you good."

"Fine," Percy relented. "Where?"

"'Poison', this new night-club not far from my apartment."

"I know where you're talking about. I'll be there." Percy said. "But why are they called apartments when their all stuck together?"

"Irony, I guess. I'll see you at nine o'clock, okay."

"Nine."

So five hours later, in extreme reconsideration of his promise to be there, Percy stood outside 'Poison', fitting in as much as a duck in a desert.

"Hey, you came!" Liz exclaimed joyfully, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tightly. She looked different from usual, partly because of her muggle attire, and partly because her chestnut hair, usually plaited tightly, was wild and loose and streaked with liberal amounts of glitter.

"Yes, I came," Percy replied ruefully.

"Come on, cheer up!" Liz yelled. "We're going in now! By the way, you look really strange dressed all muggleish." She gestured towards his jeans and shirt as she pulled him into the heaving night-club behind her.

At the bar there was a close-knit group of people, obviously magical, trying to look as if they fitted in, and failing quite sensationally. A man in a hideous tweed jacket was nibbling experimentally on the cigarette buts in an ashtray.

"No, Cole," Liz laughed, and pulled the ashtray away. She passed the nuts over to him.

"Try these," she said, and Cole blushed at his faux-pas. A woman that Percy recognised as Freyda suddenly bounded out of nowhere and leapt on her sister.

"You're late, Chick! I was starting to think you'd never come!" Freyda hands had a habit of dancing excitedly as she talked, and she was never still for more than two and a half seconds. She had already bounced off to dance to what she claimed was "Oh my God, my favourite song!" in an excited voice. Physically, Frey and Liz were similar enough to be mistaken for twins, but where Liz was laid-back to the point of verticality, Frey was as excitable as a hyperactive child after eating six Mars bars.

"So, how's quidditch?" Liz asked Cole. His eyes lit up instantly with enthusiasm and he started rambling nonsensically about some great Wronksi Feint that Frey had pulled off at the last practice.

"It was brilliant!" he said with relish. "We all really believed she'd seen the snitch. The rest of the team should be arriving soon, they can tell you about it!"

"I can hardly contain my excitement," Percy said, his voice laced with sarcasm. Cole didn't notice, but jumped up and started waving madly behind Percy.

"Hi, guys, we're over here!" Percy turned to see Oliver Wood followed by a man around seven foot tall give or take, a wispy little speck of a girl, a boy around seventeen who was quaking with fear and what looked like an amazon warrior.

"Hi, Perce," Oliver muttered, sitting down next to him.

"These rejects are Puddlemere United?" Percy asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Hey, we may look mismatched but we're good! See Kerry," he nodded to the witch who looked like an amazon, "she's an amazing beater, as strong as any man and has fantastic aim."

"Good for her. But I'm glad you're here; I really wanted someone to talk to about this Pelopidas thing." Oliver looked highly uncomfortable.

"I don't know, Percy. I've got a lot going on in my life at the moment."

"This has to be worth some consideration, though. We'd be helping people and saving lives."

"I know." Oliver looked more uncomfortable than ever. "It sounds pretty dangerous."

"I think that I'll join. I'll want more information from Wesley first but I will probably join."

"Well, it's easier for you," Oliver muttered.

"Why do you say that?" Percy's voice had taken a plunge into deep freeze, as if he sensed what was coming next. Oliver hesitated before saying,

"You know what I mean. I have a great job, being a professional quidditch player is my dream; I'm engaged to Angelina, you heard about that, didn't you?; and, you know, placing myself in danger all the time wouldn't be very fair on-" He stopped talking suddenly, looking unsure how he should continue.

"So what you're saying," Percy said, his tone positively glacial. "Is that I would have less to lose."

"No, it isn't that!" Oliver said, hastily backtracking.

"You're saying that less people would care if I died."

"No!" Oliver said, looking horrified.

"But that's what you said."

"I didn't mean it that way, I- I meant that you might be more tempted to take risks, you know, because you aren't that fazed with your job and you don't really have anyone. I was just saying that you're sort of, I don't know, looking for something

better."

Percy relaxed a bit and slumped against the bar. He laughed ruefully.

"I suppose I do long for something to give my life meaning. A raison d'être."

"A what?"

"Never mind. French has just been on my mind lately. You're definitely not joining." Oliver nodded. "I don't blame you. Sorry I snapped at you just now; I only assumed you thought my life was worthless because that's how I often feel."

"Your life isn't worthless," Oliver said emphatically, looking a little frightened. Percy smile at his concern.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to top myself; I'm more proactive than that. I'll make myself have worth by helping others. You know, that's why I originally wanted to join the Ministry: to help people." He gave a small smile. "What better place to help people than there, where I could be part of something greater than myself? Something which worked for the good of the community as a whole? That was the dream."

"What went wrong?"

"I learnt that politics isn't noble and selfless, as it theoretically should be. It's just one big smear campaign, with a sprinkle of lies, fast-tracking and nepotism. Quite depressing." Oliver looked awkward but was saved from saying anything by Frey who had appeared as if from nowhere and threw her arms around Percy.

"People, where have you been?" she shrieked. "Everyone's dancing, and you two glum boys are sitting here like old fogies or something! Come on!" She grabbed Percy's hand and yanked him so fast into the mass of dancing bodies that he probably could have sued her for whiplash, Oliver suspected.

It was boiling in the night-club, and though he wasn't dancing, Oliver felt overheated. He slid off his barstool and headed for the door, intending to catch a few minutes of fresh air. A bit of a joke really, in London, but at least it would be slightly cooler.

Outside, the air was filled with the acrid smell of smoke, almost as bad as within, the sounds of drunken yells and cars screeching to avoid some dipstick who had wandered into the middle of the road. It was scarcely less crowded here, too, with men stumbling from one pub to another, ejaculating primitive bellows which sounded like tough threats in their head. Droves of heavily painted women tottered around in stilettos, with flesh hanging over their garish, ropy clothes, giggling crazily. The pavement's natural grey could barely be seen under a carpet of broken glass, chewing gum and every type of rubbish that had ever existed. Oliver shuddered at the sight of the muggle world at its worst and walked along.

Deep in thought, he barely realised where he was walking to until he walked right past 'The Leaky Cauldron'. He stopped walking and pondered for a moment how to get past the moaning, writhing couple of muggles pressed up against the door in complete oblivion to the fact that they were blocking an entrance. Deciding on the subtle approach, Oliver shoved them roughly out the way and marched past, ignoring their angry protests.

Minutes later, Oliver was outside 'Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes', where a closed sign hung across the door. Oliver peeped through the window and saw, to his surprise, that Fred was still in the shop. He pushed the door.

"Hey, we're- oh, hi, Oliver," Fred said, putting his clipboard down. "I was just checking our stock. Come in! Do you want a butterbeer?"

"Go on, then," Oliver said, and accepted a bottle.

"So, what brings you to this neck of the woods," Fred asked genially.

"I was just passing," Oliver said.

"Uh-huh," Fred said sceptically.

"I was... wondering whether you were going to join the society of Pelopidas?" Oliver muttered. Fred took a sip of his drink, as if buying for time, leant back in his chair, and tilted his head to one side.

"I think so, yes," he finally said. "You?"

"No," Oliver said, avoiding Fred's eye.

"Why?"

"I don't know -- its too much. Why are you joining? Isn't running a joke shop action-packed enough?"

"You'd think so." But Fred didn't say anymore.

They regarded each other in silence or a while, then Fred pulled a pack of cards from his pocket.

"Blackjack?"

"Excuse me?"

"You'd be surprised what you learn when you start selling muggle cards. Here, I'll teach you."

They played for a few minutes, allowing the conversation to drift towards safer ground.

"So," Fred yawned, taking a swig of butterbeer. "When are you and our Angelina tying the knot.

"Six weeks on Thursday. I can't wait; and I can't believe I've actually managed to find someone as utterly and completely obsessed about quidditch as I am."

"Yeah, that's pretty rare. I can't say I envy you, though. In our final year she was as rough a captain as you had been."

"I wasn't rough," Oliver said indignantly. "I was getting you girls into shape." Fred let out a derisive laugh just as the bell above the door tinkled noisily. In strolled none other than Draco Malfoy.

"What are you doing here," Fred more or less snarled.

"Looking for Instant Darkness Powder," Draco said idly, running his finger along a line of products and reading the boxes. "They're all out in Knockturn Alley, would you believe it? Now, let me see... Romanian... Cuban... Russian..."

"Peruvian was quite effective, if you remember," Fred spat sarcastically. "Look, we're closed, and I wouldn't sell so much as a nougat to you, anyway!"

"Touchy, aren't we," Draco smirked. "Wesley seemed to think I had some potential for good. What are you playing? Blackjack?"

"Yeah," Fred said, taken-aback.

"My father was addicted to gambling of any sort," Draco said, by way of explanation. "Of course, he did rather keep it quiet. I'd play with you, but that would be tempting fate -- addictions run in the family, don't they."

"What makes you think we want you to join?" Oliver said, speaking in front of Draco for he first time.

"We have things in common, don't we. I suppose that makes us equals. Not a happy thought for me a few years ago, but now... Let's just say, I can't consider idiots who get their kicks from murder and torture my equals." He looked uncharacteristically troubled. "They are mad, half of them, and the other half evil. They are very little more than animals, certainly not nature's nobility. Also, I suppose, I feel bad for those I kill. I can't get my head around the fact that muggles and those born to them are equal -- but I believe that everyone, no matter how pure or otherwise, deserves life. Anything stronger here?" he asked, changing the subject rather startlingly, and nodding towards the butterbeer bottles.

"Firewhisky's out the back," Fred muttered, not sure why he as allowing him to stay, only knowing that he'd been inexplicably touched by Draco's short but very sweet speech.

Draco re-emerged seconds later with two bottles of Firewhisky and three glasses. He poured himself a generous measure, downed it, and poured another.

"Easy," Fred warned. "That's strong stuff." Draco laughed cynically.

"Do I look unaccustomed to heavy drinking?"

"Nope."

"Look, I have to go," Oliver said abruptly. "I have a game on early tomorrow."

"Yeah, you need you're beauty sleep," Fred mocked, but good-naturedly.

"Want some before you go?" Draco enquired, offering a glass.

"I can't play quidditch with a hangover!" Oliver said, looking scandalised. He disapparated.

"I'll take it!" Fred said, plucking the glass from Draco's long, white fingers.

"Hey," Draco exclaimed, and he poured himself another. "By the way, I don't have double-vision yet, so I can tell there's only one of you. Where's Fred?"

"I am Fred."

"Where's George?"

"New York, New York -- he's back tomorrow."

"Cool. I've always wanted to go to the big apple. Is it business or pleasure?"

"Business: we're considering extending Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes to the states. New York first, then LA, perhaps."

"Impressive," Draco said sincerely.

"I suppose. But it's been quite scary how well things are going. I've been feeling guilty about it."

"Guilty for being successful?"

"You wouldn't understand," Fred muttered.

"Try me," Draco challenged.

"Well, my father has struggled his entire life to scrape a living and George and I barely had to try. You know, we've made over three million galleons already. Twenty years old, and we're millionaires. It doesn't seem right."

"Hey, you earned it," Draco said with a fierceness that surprised him. "I'm the one who should feel guilty. When my parents died, I inherited enough money to retire a small town for life. I didn't earn that: I was born with it in my pocket."

Fred couldn't think of anything to say. Draco sat hunched, eyes on the burnt orange liquid between his fingers, sleek hair

falling forward over his eyes, looking miserable.

"Will you be joining this Pelopidas thing?" Fred asked, trying to distract Draco from his troubles.

"Yeah, I have to. I have to make amends. I didn't really want Dumbledore to die -- or anyone else for that matter."

"I believe you."

"What about you?" Draco countered, raising his mackerel eyes from his glass.

"I'm going -- though Oliver's not."

"I can't say that surprises me. But what made you decide to join?"

"In truth? Well, I'm a twin."

"No way!" Draco grinned. "How long have you been keeping this a secret?"

"George and I have always, always done everything together. Excluding the odd business trip, we're always together. We're never apart for more than an hour, it seems. We don't do it quite so much now, but when we were younger, we'd finish each other's sentences."

"Yeah, I remember. That was irritating, I don't mind telling you."

"The result of that was: I'm not Fred, I am one-half of Fred-and-George. This Pelopidas thing is like something I can have just for me. That's not something I've ever had before. I need this."

"You join Pelopidas as a form of escapism. Can't you just use alcohol?" Draco grinned.

"You do enough of that," Fred said.

"True. Seriously, though, if you were a muggle, you would have probably joined a cult by now."

"Probably, yes," Fred laughed. He yawned. "I'm going to bed."

"What? But we're not even fully drunk yet!" Draco said in mock outrage.

"You don't have to open up a shop at six-thirty," Fred pointed out.

"Fair enough. I'll see you in three days -- well, two now, it's after midnight -- at this Pelopidas thing. Along with whoever else deigns to show up."

Draco disapparated and Fred went upstairs, wondering exactly who would be brave enough to show up.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four: To join, or not to join, that is the question -- the girls

'Flourish and Blotts' was a large shop, larger than it seemed from the front, and offered a far wider variety of goods than most people were aware. At the very front, just after opening the door, parchment and quills were sold along with every non-fiction magic book ever published stacked in neat piles. This was known by every witch or wizard who'd ever attended Hogwarts, which was every witch and wizard with few exceptions. A few rows back however, the writing turned fictitious, and past that, strange little trinkets were sold: rememberalls, cribbing cuffs, revealers and other such oddities. Near the back, where people seldom went and the atmosphere had the same placid serenity as a library, was the art supplies.

Luna ran her hand over a line of brushes, dissatisfied by all but a few and trying to decide which to buy. In took her many minutes, but she eventually held the candidate she considered the best in her hand. Then she needed to buy two new pencils. Pencils are not, of course, often used in the wizarding world -- but the idea that they could be supplanted by so inflexible an instrument as a scratching, leaking quill was preposterous. When Luna finally decided on everything, which took the best part of the morning, she proceeded to the till were a cheerfully smiling witch helped her pack before announcing the price.

Luna wandered dreamily along Diagon Alley, aiming vaguely for 'The Quibbler's' office to say hello to her father before apparating over to the meadows to break in her new art supplies. The meadows were a few hundred metres from her house, and her favourite place on Earth. Grass grew high and the air was sweet with the scent of a thousand flowers. Even when it rained, the meadows seemed brighter and more cheerful than its surroundings. It was a true paragon of nature for those who wished to draw it as Luna did.

At the back of her mind Luna sometimes worried that her infatuation with art and nature severed her connection from the rest of the world. Certainly when she wasn't sketching or painting she was thinking about sketching and painting, more precisely, she was thinking of how best to capture the next plant or animal or scenery. Her fascination with the beauty of the natural world made the human world seem rather dull in contrast, and, try though she would, she couldn't kindle the same interest with people, and the passionate side of her personality got rather lost.

Somebody knocked into Luna on the street suddenly.

"I am so sorry, I was not concentrating!" the offender said in an airy tone that made one wonder whether she was sincerely contrite. The woman gave Luna the briefest look then stopped and looked at her properly. "Wait," she said. "You were there zat night, weren't you? Luna, I theenk your name is."

Luna looked at the woman. She had long blonde hair, not bimbo blonde, but a rare shade of silvery-gold that seemed unnatural. Her skin was very pale and seemed to glow oddly, as if she'd drunk radioactive water, and her eyes were like large cut blue diamonds. Luna had seen her the day before last, at that strange little house in muggle London.

"I was there," Luna said.

"Do you want to 'ave coffee with me?" Rarely surprised, Luna was surprised by this. She nodded, seeing no reason to object; Fleur linked her arm with Luna's in an over-friendly way and lead her to a small but very chic coffee shop just at the edge of Sweetheather Alley.

"Are you going for eet?" Fleur asked anxiously as she pulled Luna along.

Luna had not decided this yet. In all honestly, she had quite forgotten about it.

"I don't know," Luna admitted.

"Me neither," Fleur fretted as they walked through the glass doors of 'Je ne se quoi'.

"French names sound so elegant," Luna commented, glancing up at the sign.

"Eet just means 'I don't know what'," Fleur said in her dismissive way. "A cappuccino, Eli," Fleur called to a gawky-looking woman with strawberry blonde hair pulled back into a painfully tight bun. The woman smiled, nodded and glanced questioningly at Luna who said,

"Just a coffee, please."

"Eli is one of my dearest friends 'ere in Eengland, though I do not feel I can tell 'er of zis," Fleur said as she gracefully deposited herself on a chair near the window. "Can you tell your friends of it?"

"I don't really have that many friends," Luna commented mildly. Fleur blinked and though she had never felt a gram of embarrassment in her entire life, what she felt now was pretty similar. "I didn't tell my father, though. I tell him most things but not this. Mostly because I forgot about it, but I don't think I would have anyway."

"Eet does feel like eet should be a secret," Fleur said, half to herself. She sighed and tossed her silvery mane dramatically over her shoulder. "Of course, what I really wish to speak with you about eez ze difficult matter of whether or not I should join." She sighed pathetically. "Will you do so?"

"I will, I think," Luna said, not knowing quite why. She suddenly felt a desire to be closer to other people; apart from her father and the DA, her experience with others of her species was limited and superficial.

"I just cannot decide," Fleur murmured, gazing into her cappuccino as if hoping to find some sort of truth in its depths.

"Eet seems as though eet will be dangerous."

"Probably, yes," Luna shrugged.

"You do not care," Fleur asked, noticing her casual tone.

"I don't fear death. What is there to fear? There's nothing to hold me back from joining."

"You 'ave enough time?"

"I only work part-time as an illustrator for 'The Quibbler'. What about you?"

"I don't work; I am married." A flush of pale pink stole across Fleur's face at these words.

"You wish you did work?" Luna asked with uncharacteristic perceptiveness.

"I did not care vairy much at first. But being so dependant on anuzzer person is depressing after a while, even if zat person eez my 'usband. Some women, like my muzzer-in-law, are perfectly satisfied with zat existence, but I feel more and more frustrated and a little pointless."

Luna nodded absently.

"I've never really had much respect for housewives." Fleur nodded glumly and put her head on the table.

"I 'ad twelve NOMs, which is like your OWLs, all 'igh passes. I was a triwizard champion. Now I am an 'ousewife."

"More reason to join Pelopidas."

"You theenk?" Fleur asked, unsure.

"You would do it well, I know that much." Luna gave her the ephemeral, strange smile that was distinctive of Luna Lovegood. "I have to go, I promised my dad I'd bring him my pictures my half past two. Thanks for the coffee, this has been very nice." She stood up, fished out a few sickles and put them on the table, and then left.

Fleur looked at the cold remainders of her drink in her hand and allowed her mind to drift tentatively over to the idea of accepting Mr Wesley's offer. She had never truly considered it until her conversation with Luna: she was just pretending to consider something to which she knew the answer had to be 'no'. But...

Why did have to be 'no'? Why couldn't she seriously consider changing her life for the better? Fleur's pulse quickened at the thought. It seemed like something exciting and reckless, certainly not something she would ever do. Even before she married, her life had been glamorous, certainly, but always safe. Partly because her mother had furnished her with the idea that woman were a purely ornamental sex -- what did Fleur need an adventure for? Marie Delacour had not been happy when Fleur had entered the Triwizard Tournament (such a boyish activity, Fleur, couldn't you just date the champion?) and she was completely unfazed by her daughter's brilliant grades (what do you need them for, your husband will earn the money; in fact it's a hindrance, you know how men dislike it when you're cleverer than they are!).

"Thinking deep thoughts, Fleur?" Eli teased sitting down heavily. "It's my break now, thank God! Mind if I join you?"

"My muzzer always told me zat deep thoughts were inappropriate for girls."

"That sounds crap."

"Eet eez," Fleur mused. She glanced at her watch. "I should go, Bill and I are meant to go to ze Burrow soon."

"See you later then," Eli yawned, taking a deep swig of tea.

Fleur disapparated and reappeared in her living room where Bill was sitting with 'Transfiguration Today' opened on his lap.

"You took long enough!" he snapped. "I thought you only wanted a new pair of shoes!"

"I ran eento a friend," Fleur sighed, his bad humour washing over her without effect. "We 'ad coffee."

"That's nice," Bill said. The fact that he spat the statement negated it.

"Are we going?" Fleur asked heavily.

"Yeah, in a second," Bill grumbled. "Accio cloak!"

* * *

"Hello, dears!" Molly beamed. "I haven't seen you in ages."

"Yeah, sorry, Mum, we've been busy," Bill grinned and kissed his mother on the cheek.

"Well, never mind. Will you be staying for Sunday Dinner? Ron and Harry and Hermione are all coming over."

"Of course we will stay," Fleur said automatically before Bill could refuse. Bill cast her a sulky, annoyed glance but she didn't care. She needed to break Bill's habit of avoiding crowds no matter how small. Molly smiled and continued to bustle about the kitchen.

"That smells nice," Ron's voice said appreciatively as the kitchen door swung open.

"Thanks, dear. It will be another hour yet, though."

"We can play Quidditch in the meantime... hey Bill, want to join?" he asked suddenly catching sight of his brother.

"Yeah, all right."

"I theenk I will seet eet out," Fleur said quickly.

"Me, too," Hermione added. "But I'm sure Ginny will play with you. She's home for Easter, isn't she Mrs Weasley?"

"Yes, she's in her room at the moment. GINNY!" she yelled.

"What?" called a voice and there was a heavy patter of feet running down stairs.

"Want to play Quidditch?" Ron asked brightly, typically oblivious of the sudden awkward silence.

Ginny looked a little hesitant but, seeing Harry looking aghast, she said, "yes," in a defiant sort of way. "By the way, how's the Horcrux search that I'm not good enough to join going?"

Now even Ron could tell that it would be a difficult game but it was too late; Ginny was already leading the way out into the garden. Harry looked at Ron helplessly who shrugged, looking equally helpless. Bill followed, looking curious. Molly was humming a Celestina Warbeck tune loudly as she cooked, loud enough for Hermione to whisper to Fleur,

"Are you joining?"

"I 'aven't quite decided. Probably. And you?"

"Yes. There was never any doubt in my mind. People need help and I can offer it."

"Eet eez more complicated, you know zat."

"Of course I know it; but it doesn't change the fact that we're being given a chance to save lives, a chance that I can't just ignore. If I could ignore it do you think I'd be helping Harry?"

"No. I understand 'ow you feel, but..." Fleur sighed dramatically. "I am not unselfish enough to join wizzout theenking eet over."

"I'm not as much unselfish as crazy," Hermione said with a small smile. Fleur laughed. "You say you'll probably join -- apart from moral obligation, what's making you lean in that direction?"

"Boredom and vanity, I am afraid," Fleur said. "I 'ave ze feeling zat I can do sometheeng better zan..." she trailed off. Hermione had no idea how to answer and so was quite glad when there was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in -- oh, Percy!" Molly's eyes lit up at the sight of the tall young man standing in the doorway. Hermione's head snapped quickly to the right to see that Percy was indeed there.

"Hello, Mother," Percy said in the typically formal way he addressed his family. He didn't mean to much of the time but he had never been totally at ease with these people who, though his flesh and blood, were nothing like him.

"Sit down, dear," Molly gushed. "You'll be staying for dinner. You're looking so thin!"

"I'll stay," Percy assented and took a seat next to Fleur and Hermione. Molly continued to cook with greater alacrity than ever; having over half of her children at home where she could keep an eye on them happened so rarely.

"Well?" Percy all but demanded once Molly had turned away.

"This is unusual," Hermione commented cattily. "We're graced with your presence."

"What will you be doing about this Society of Pelopidas?" Percy asked ignoring Hermione.

"That's why you showed up!" Hermione's eyebrows resembled McDonald's arches. "I should have known better than to think you cared for your family."

"Not the time, Hermione," Percy said, his voice stiff but his eyes flashing with the same dangerous anger that had caused such problems for him.

"There is no right time," Hermione said with a cynical laugh. "Not that it's any of my business that you're not speaking to your family but-"

"I'm not exactly not speaking to them! Since it was proven that You-Know-Who's back I haven't not spoken to them; I've avoided more contact than necessary, it's true, but it hasn't been a pleasant atmosphere with me here, as you can imagine."

Fleur thought back to the Christmas before last: it had not been a pleasant atmosphere. She hadn't blamed Percy for not wanting to be there. With the exception of Molly, it was fairly clear that he was not wanted.

"Maybe if you apologised?" Hermione said sarcastically, but her expression had softened considerably.

"What do you expect? A speech? Some sort of public announcement about the depth of my regret? Look, I _did_ apologise to my father for being mistaken -- not an adequate apology I'll admit. But it'll take a lot more than words for my family to accept

me as a part of them again. I'm just not sure how to prove myself to them, so I tend to avoid them."

"Being mistaken?" Hermione repeated incredulously. "A bit of an understatement, don't you think? And didn't you apologise for the awful things you said to him."

"Were you there?" Percy challenged.

"No, but-"

"Then you can't comment. I suppose you heard my siblings' account of the row? You trust that there wasn't some hyperbole in their telling?"

Hermione remained uncertainly silent. She had to admit that, riled as they were at Percy, exaggeration would have been a fairly easy trap to fall into.

"And they made it pretty one-sided, didn't they? They told you all the bad things _I_ said, while accidentally leaving out what was said to me, right?"

Hermione tried to recollect. While Ron had said that Arthur had been as furious as he'd ever seen him, he had left out Arthur's side of the quarrel.

"He was shouting too," Percy continued, his voice never raising to a level that Molly might hear. "And he wasn't shouting sweet nothings, I can assure you. It was an argument; I am no more to blame than he for it."

"You were still in the wrong," Hermione said finally.

"I know." The glint of self-righteousness flickered out of his eye. "I know I made a mistake, but I'm not the villain that I'm treated like."

"Why didn't you believe Harry?" Hermione asked suddenly, aware that the occasion to ask may never again arise.

"I wasn't the only one. Considering the overwhelming evidence against him, I just didn't. Think about it logically. Harry turned up holding Cedric's corpse, nobody saw what happened, the person alleged responsible has the excellent alibi of being dead for over a decade so what's more likely to have happened: crazy dead person is reborn or the traumatised boy that's been abused his entire life understandably snapped."

"You _know_ Harry!"

"No, Hermione, _you_ know Harry. I spoke to him once a year here and I never liked him."

"I theenk 'Arry eez a lovely boy," Fleur said, trying to get a word in edgeways.

"Well, he saved Gabrielle from the mer-demons, didn't-" Percy was interrupted by the loud 'pop' of an apparition.

"Is food almost ready, Molly?" Arthur Weasley asked brightly. "I'm absolutely famished." He smiled as his eyes passed across Fleur and Hermione, then spotted Percy and stopped smiling. The tension in the room quadrupled uncomfortably. Percy's eyes were resolutely on the kitchen table and neither said anything.

"It's almost ready, darling," Molly said nervously.

"You wonder why I avoid this place," Percy muttered to Hermione who had to admit that she saw his point.

"I picked up the Evening Prophet on the way home," Arthur said stiffly, unfolding the paper in his hand. "There's been a new murder. The first in a while."

"Oh no, I thought things were starting to die down!" Molly's voice wavered.

"We all thought that. This one made the front page. It's- it's quite brutal. Only a young girl, too."

"Who is it?" Hermione asked, a sickening lurch of foreboding wrenching her stomach.

"Cho Chang. Why?" Arthur asked seeing the stricken looks on the three faces before him. "Did you know her?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter five: It was no accident

As it was the day that Fred expected to be confronted by Wesley again, he was not altogether surprised when Percy and Hermione burst through the shop doors at an ungodly hour (11:30am) looking worried.

"What is it?" he asked warily.

"Cho Chang is dead!" Hermione hissed, thrusting the newspaper into his hands. Fred's wide eyes traced over the article. Phrases like 'brutally mauled', 'family in shock' and 'no suspects so far' leapt out at him.

"My God," Fred muttered.

"She was stabbed eighteen times. They pretty much gutted her," Percy said. His eyes were on the floor and it was obviously very uncomfortable for him to be there. Fred pointedly ignored him.

"Oh, don't be so silly, both of you!" Hermione snapped. "This is serious!"

"Keep your voice down," Fred warned. "George is round the back."

"You haven't told him?" Percy asked, evidently highly surprised. Feeling it would be too openly childish to ignore the question completely, Fred sneered,

"No, I didn't." He wanted to add something patronising to make Percy feel like an idiot but he couldn't find the right words.

"What's going on -- oh, hi Hermione," George said brightly as he entered; catching sight of Percy, his expression soured but he remained silent, never one to make quite as much of a scene as Fred.

"I'm just here to get supplies for the Ministry, I'll be out of your hair soon enough," Percy said without emotion. Hermione raised her eyebrows after George had sidled through to the back again. "Well, it was the only thing I could think of. Not very plausible I know, I dare say the Ministry would rather shop at _Knockturn_ _alley_ than this place!"

"Hey!"

"Come on, you might be a very good joke shop but you're still a joke shop; you're not meant to have that much credibility."

"I suppose that's true -- but credibility or no, we've received tall orders from the Ministry!"

"You don't say."

"Where did you think that the shield gear you used came from?" Fred added smugly.

"Excuse me, _I_ do not need the use of a cloak for a shield, my magical powers are _quite_ capable of performing a simple shield charm," Percy said acidly.

"Relax, it's not like I'm accusing you of impotence! Besides, I meant 'you' plural, not 'you' singular. I meant the Ministry as a whole." Fred almost laughed before he realised he was getting a little too friendly towards Percy and restrained himself. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Look, this is serious," Hermione said.

"Who else have you spoken to?" Fred asked.

"Everyone," she replied. "Fleur is hysterical, not that I'm surprised. Luna looked worried for probably the first time since she was born; Malfoy looked a little concerned, though he's fairly accustomed to being hunted; but Oliver's reaction is what really has me worried. He's refusing to believe that there is any connection between Pelopidas and Cho's death."

"Maybe he's right," said Fred.

"Possibly, but I sincerely doubt it," Percy cut in. "It's too much of a coincidence, but we'll have to wait to speak to Wesley to be really sure."

"How are we getting in contact with him?" Fred wondered.

"I think he'll probably contact us. That's how it was last time."

"You are right," said a soft voice from the shadows and the three leapt a metre straight into the air. Leaning nervously against a shelf was Mr Wesley.

"When and how the hell did you get here?" Fred demanded. Mr Wesley smiled weakly at him as he always did when faced with an answer he couldn't or didn't want to answer.

"You are right. Cho's death was no coincidence."

"We gathered as much," Hermione said with mild sarcasm.

"Do you know who it was?" Percy asked. Mr Wesley didn't quite meet his gaze.

"We- we do have some ideas," he admitted cagily.

"Then tell us, dammit, we have a right to know who's after us if we're in danger, too, as I assume we are," Hermione exploded. Mr Wesley nodded sadly to thin air.

"You are in danger, too, I am afraid. You are also without choice. Usually, before joining our society, potential members are safe. It is now evident that you are not, you have been discovered. It is now necessary for you to join for protection."

"Tell that to Oliver," Fred muttered. Wesley's light brown eyes snapped quickly towards Fred.

"Oliver does not wish to join? But he must, now."

"What, are you going to tie him up and drag him to your secret headquarters?" Fred asked.

"If need be."

"Wonderful."

"You do not seem to realise quite how serious the situation is," Wesley said sadly. "You _must_ join, I beg you to realise this."

Less than ten minutes later, Wesley had successfully dragged the three, plus Draco, Luna, Fleur and Oliver, back to the disturbing house on Paris Avenue.

"I am not joining," Oliver said slowly and emphatically, to make the message as clear as he could.

"You must!" Wesley looked close to tears.

"If whatever psycho wacko nut that eviscerated Cho did it because she was associated with you lot, we'd be safer if we _weren't_ associated with you lot, don't you think?"

"We have reason to believe that they know exactly who you are now. They will not stop until you are all dead, I'm afraid, whether you join or no. They shall have a much more difficult time attempting to destroy you if you were under our protection."

"How do I know that you're not just saying that?" Oliver accused.

Wesley looked down at his hands and then back at Oliver, looking at him right in the eye.

"If you are determined to think me a liar, I cannot change your mind; neither can I force you to accept membership if you are so set against it, but one last time I ask: please, join us for your own safety?" Oliver shook his head firmly and Wesley sighed.

"Very well, Cadarn will show you out. I wish you luck, but I cannot pretend I expect you to live very long." A young boy darted, out of thin air it seemed, towards Oliver, grabbed his arm, and silently tugged him out of the room. A few beats of awkward, oppressive silence pressed down on the room for several seconds before Percy cleared his throat.

"Er, well, er. So I suppose we're members now, of this Society of Pelopidas thing."

"You are."

"What does _Pelopidas_ mean, anyway?" Fred cut in

"Pelopidas was a freedom fighter many years ago. That is what we do, fight for the freedom of our people, for our right to live without threat."

"Oookay."

"So what 'appens now?" Fleur asked, the question which haunted everyone's minds.

"Now? Why, now we train you! We have Death Eaters and other horrid characters to conquer! You will all, of course, need to tap into your special skills -- and then become animagi."

"Animagi?" Hermione frowned. "Special skills?"

"All Pelopidi, as we call our members, must become animagi. And all witches and wizards have special magical skills separate from magic with wands. If you wish to survive very long in our world, you must hone these."

A startled silence hung over the group for several seconds as they tried to absorb what they had just heard.

"Well, doesn't this sound like a barrel of laughs?" Draco sneered.

A.N. Sorry for repeating the last chapter, I meant to post this one but I uploaded the wrong file by mistake. My bad.


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